Keeping Watch
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Early season one. A little lighthouse haunting. Humor, action-adventure, hurt/angst/nightmare infested Sam, watchful, port in the storm, brutally handsome Dean.
1. Chapter 1

KEEPING WATCH

By Karen B.

Summary: Early season one. A little lighthouse haunting. Humor, action-adventure, hurt/angst Sam, watchful, port in the storm, brutally handsome Dean.

Disclaimer: Not the owner, just a dreamer with her head in the clouds way too often.

Thank you so much Caroline for giving of your time, and keeping watch over my mess! All other untidy, jumbled or muddled, mixed-up words and images are of my own stupid doing.

**The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,**

**and on its outer point, some miles away,**

**the lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,**

**A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.**

**- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,**

**From The Lighthouse**

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_A tower of stone, sturdy and strong._

_Against the blast of wind and rain song. _

_A fortresses guiding ships from rock-splitting strife._

_Through the hardships of this life. _

_Like a heartbeat needed - stretches the beam of light._

_A warm breath - cutting through the darkest night._

_Ages pass. Sturdy and strong, become old and broken. _

_The beacon of light directing a path now unspoken. _

_A common road traveled by all._

_But often times hazy, a twisted dark hall. _

_No map can save thee, no light can bring thee home. _

_Poor misguided souls, hurled into bubbling sea foam. _

_Unable to let go of the shadowy imprint of their past. _

_Searching through the veil, eyes only at half-mast. _

_Lost and wandering through the darkest of darkest nights._

_Unable to see the light - of wrongs and of rights. _

_Unable to find the safety of that which is home. _

_Trapped, moaning, seeking - angry and alone. _

_An empty glass bottle never to be filled, unable to break._

_Incapable of peace, an unbeating heart tethered to a stake._

_Forever seeking. Never finding. Blinded by deceit _

_Wandering through death - forever incomplete._

_-Karen B._

_/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Jules was a beautiful vixen. Her taffy colored hair fell like a gushing cascade down her slender feminine back. Her silver-gray eyes were like that of a dove; large, and the foremost part of her porcelain face, showing as bright as the beacon of her home. Her outward appearance was enough to make any man lust for her in ways not to be thought of, least ye' go to hell._

_As a child, Jules was giddy and joyful. Her mother, Emily, had died shortly after childbirth. All she had was her father, the lights very first keeper. A salty old man, Captain Theodore was, round and stout. Scrubby white beard, bushy white brow, and stringy white hair to match. He was a highly responsible man - always. Liked to stay in one place, and didn't mind being alone. He was very meticulous_ _always trimming the wicks, replenishing the oil, polishing the lamp room's storm panes. His diligence - tireless. Seven days a week. Day and night. Always on alert for storm or fog. Repeatedly climbing one hundred and seventy-six steps up and down to light the lantern. To bring the lost safely home. Never would he leave his home. Abandon those who's very lives depended on him, caring for the lighthouse as if it was the very blood of his offspring. Such was the life of a lighthouse keeper. _

_It was a lonely existence for Jules. No friends or lads nearby. She often felt the presence of her mother, and swore she had seen her a time or two. A foggy apparition, twisting like ribbon and floating about the lamp room where she had been found dead from an unknown cause._

_The love of her father was all Jules had known. But, alas, one stormy night on her eighteenth year, her father was taken from her by the bad mood of the sea. He had left her alone that night, entrusting her to light the lamp's wick, taking his small rowboat to the northerner side of the lake to tend to his traps, and that was the last she had ever seen of him._

_Jules inherited her father's trade. Becoming a keeper of the light, an unusual task for a woman, but she took the job seriously, as he did, never failing to light the wick, to guide the lost home. _

_Jules eventually took a husband, Sal, a tall dashing man with a mane of hair as long as a prancing stallions and hazel eyes that emulated the sea. _

_He'd courted Jules for months and they were wed the following spring. _

_On their eighteenth anniversary, Sal had returned to fishing; his old livelihood. Alas, tragedy struck Jules' life again, as he too, met his fate on a dreary storm-filled night. Jules came once again face-to-face and heart-to heart with yet another tragedy. Love had left her alone, and she vowed never again to love another living soul. _

_Without child, she eventually went mad from loneliness. Wearing her silk-white wedding dress, she set her self on fire, jumping from the lamp room catwalk to her death upon the rocks below. _

_The lighthouse continued to be a place of horrible tragedy and harsh loss as if lending itself over to some awful curse. Decade after decade keepers and their families came to tend the light. And on every eighteenth year since the death of Captain Theodore, someone else, some way, some how died._

_Raven's Point, as the lighthouse had been named, seemed to take on a life of its own, dithering from its objective to light the way, to keep death at bay, Instead, attracting death, begging to the lonely, lost and grief stricken to come enter into its walls - and never leave. _

_/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Sam walked slowly between the headstones. It was a beautiful day. The light breeze blowing through the surrounding trees was warm and the leaves shimmered in the bright morning sun. He passed under the shadow of an ancient oak tree. The big tree seemed to dwarf him and for a moment he paused in awe, peering up through the thick branches at a white bird singing merrily, perched on the edge of her nest - her home.

Home. For the past several years, Jess had been his home, but now his home was gone and he could never go back. He just wanted to go back. The mother bird sang a merry tune as she warmed her eggs, keeping them safe from harm.

Stepping out from under the tree, Sam squinted his eyes against the bright morning sun tentatively taking the last few steps forward. He stared down at the brand new headstone, and freshly lumped dirt. The pink granite headstone was surrounded by flowers and several teddy bears. Mounted on the stone was a recent picture. The smiling eyes in the picture did nothing to ease the cloud of deplorable blackness he could feel whirling around inside of him. Instead, it made his belly churn as if he'd consumed a can of liquefied worms. The sun bouncing off the shiny pink granite caused his eyes to water. His breathing turned rapid, his lips twitched and his heart fluttered.

"Oh, Jess," he swallowed hard, barely able to whisper as he knelt stiffly down on both knees before the grave - hurting beyond hurt. "Gawd," A tiny moan escaped his lips. "I tried," Sam sobbed. "I tired to leave it behind. My past. But all the…" he paused not knowing what to call the horrible things he'd never told her about. "All the bad stuff followed me. I couldn't escape. Should have known it would find me," Sam hung his head, "Find you." He swiped at his eyes. "It's my fault." Acid burned the back of his throat and he swallowed to keep from puking. Sam peered back at the picture. "I don't know…" His breaths came in ragged bursts. Dreams of Jess dying, had twisted and toppled through his mind.

But they were only dreams; up until only a month ago. How could he have ignored them? He'd been a fool.

A wisp of wind brought his bangs down over his eyes. "There's nothing I can do, now. Finding the thing that killed you is all I have left. And you're gone, and I'm scared. Scared and not understanding how I could have known and not been able to stop it. Any of it."

Another gust of wind swirled around Sam and he lifted his head, swearing he could smell her perfume. "Jess," trembling lips whispered her name. "They'll never be anyone else," Sam vowed, reaching out and brushing quivering fingers over her picture.

The wind picked up further, stealing his breath. How could he have left her? Knowing what he'd been dreaming about all those weeks before and up to the day. What was he thinking? His trembling hand clenched into a tight fist, lifting only to smash back down with might to the stone.

"Gah." Sam grit his teeth, two huge tears trickling down to patter into the dry dirt.

He continued to look at the image of Jessica staring back at him. She had been so beautiful, dainty, full of zest and spunk. Genuine, smart, funny - the list went on - she'd been too good to be real, but real she was…real enough to be pinned to the ceiling. Real enough to be gutted, to bleed. Her beautiful soft blonde hair, her cute as a button nose, the special silky white gown she only wore when they were going to spend the night together, pleasuring one another - all real - all set to flame, all gone.

The brutal truth brought more tears streaking down his face, phantom arrows hitting his heart, one after the other after the other. The imaginary arrows hurt and his heart bled, but still he lived on. Why? Why did he live on?

Suddenly, everything turned icy and silent. The white bird had stopped her merry singing. A dark, black, monstrous thing - that was so familiar it almost seemed to be a part of himself - took over. The bright sun disappeared behind an ominous cloud, and there came a popping noise and a flash of red, then Jessica's picture burst into flame.

"Nuh." Horrified, Sam faltered but was unable to get up. "No, Jess!" His long, rubber legs folded, frozen beneath him. He tried to reach out, to grasp the photo, but the hot as hell fire singed his fingertips and he helplessly withdrew. Once again he was forced to witness her turn to ash. Blood bubbled up from the headstone and Sam tried not to heave, looking on as the reddish-brown pulsating liquid formed two words.

**Why, Sam?**

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Again Sam tried to back away from the headstone, but a cold-as- death hand pushed up through the dry clumpy dirt, caught and held him, yanking him down to the ground. Sam struggled but the rotting fingers gripping just over his heart held fast.

"Not you. It's not you," Sam whimpered unable to escape the clutches.

The popping noise was back, a flash of red and the arm caught fire, then the hand, then Sam's heart. The pain was like a sea of flames closing off his lungs. Sam choked, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "Ahhhh!" he cried out, fighting hard to arch away.

"Dude!"

The hand was crushing his heart, the way that her death had crushed his heart. Sam's knees dug deeper into the ground. "No," he snarled. "Jess." Using the last of his waning energy, Sam managed to free his right hand as hot brazen anger coursed through his body, his bulging biceps straining as he thrashed and banged a fist to the dirt. "Let go. Let me go!"

"Sam."

Someone was calling him, a male voice, familiar but not. He was bewildered, not thinking straight. Huge gusts of wind came across the cemetery, dragging along with it gnarled sticks, and crinkled leaves that tangled in his hair, while bits of pebbly dirt stung his cheeks. The burning sensation in his chest grew, stealing his breath and his heartbeat, causing him to reflexively gag. The words 'why, Sam' now chanted loud and clear in his head. Another hand gripped his shoulder from behind, massaging lightly.

"Get away." Sam jerked violently, managing to kick a foot outward.

Toppling.

Falling.

Crashing.

"Sammy! Damn it, bro!"

Caught in the panic of his struggle, Sam called out for the one person he trusted. "Dean!"

"Whoa now, sh, sh." Words echoed in his ear, safe and protective. "Sam. Hey."

But Sam only panicked further, arching away, feeling around for anything he could use as a weapon.

"Friggin' wake the hell up!" A sharp pain came to Sam's jaw and his head snapped back.

"Guh." Sam's eyes shot wide open. Someone was bent over him.

"It's over. It's all over." Leveled green eyes peered at him in concern.

Sam sat rigid and staring. His breaths coming in rough gasps, his skin dusty-gray and body trembling so hard he nearly toppled sideways.

"It's me." Dean nabbed Sam's shirt, double knotting his fingers to hold Sam up. "It's me, Sammy."

Nightmare. It was just another nightmare. Why did they all seem so real? Perhaps because he was on the floor acting this one out - before a live audience - his brother. "I-I," Sam frowned, flushed with embarrassment. Not knowing what to say, he took in a few deep breaths, trying to stop shaking.

"You okay?"

"I feel," Sam made a face and swallowed back the vomit that wanted to spew out.

"I know," Dean winced in understanding sympathy, "Easy."

"Owe." Sam rubbed at his chin.

"That's going to hurt," Dean said apologetically.

"Already does," Sam complained, "Wha' happen?"

"You either got in a fight with your laptop, man," Dean gestured with a chin tip toward the far wall, "Or you were having a dozy of a nightmare," he said. "Either way, my fist accidentally found your face."

Sam frantically glanced around. Last thing he remembered Dean was asleep and he was sitting at the table researching a haunted lighthouse. Now he was soggy with sweat, body swaying, befogged.

He was in their motel room, kneeling on the floor near a small table. To the left of him was an overturned chair. To the right, an upside down pizza box nestled next to that, a beer bottle still spilling its contents to the carpet. Across the room there was a large dent in the wall, and his wrecked laptop lay open on the floor, its screen a scrambled rainbow of colors.

"Wanna talk?"

Sam didn't answer, his forehead wrinkling as he bit into his lower lip.

"Uh-huh," Dean grouched. One of these days Sam was going to have to come clean about his candy-cane and lollipop dreams. But for now the kid looked exhausted. Sleepless nights had beaten a path under his eyes, and now the deprivation was screwing with his mind. "Let's get you into bed." He started to pull Sam up.

"No. Dean, no. I can't…" Sam's chest heaved. "I won't. Please. I'm fine. Let me go," he demanded firmly.

Dean unfurled his fingers, releasing his hold. "Fine, letting go." He raised his hands, not happy about the urgent request but backing off anyway

"Thanks." Sam got to his feet and made his way unsteadily across the room, carefully picking up his laptop and examining it.

"So which was it," Dean demanded, "Candyland or computer gremlin?"

"Motherboard's loose." Sam started punching at keys, purposely ignoring Dean. "Crap, it's broken."

"Not the only thing broken around here," Dean mumbled sorrowfully, righting the overturned chair - Sam had unknowingly kicked over during his night terror - and sat down in it.

Sam stumbled over his feet and his emotions as he made his way around the room. The nightmare still lingered, the air stifling, strangling him by the throat. He slipped the damaged laptop into its carry bag, next grabbing his duffle. Yanking open a dresser drawer, he started stuffing it with clothes.

"Sam? What are you doing?"

"We gotta go," he panted.

"Bro," Dean sighed, "It's the middle of the night." Dean glanced at the wall clock. "Three A.M. to be exact."

"I can't stay here, Dean." Sam went to the next drawer throwing in more belongings.

"Sammy," Dean's voice was gentle. "You need to…"

"Hunt," Sam interrupted, turning pleading eyes to Dean. Desperate to control the mess inside of him. "I just need to stay busy. There's a lighthouse not far from here."

"A lighthouse, huh?"

Sam nodded, zipping his bag and closing the drawer. "It's haunted."

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor. The bad dreams were working his brother over but good, like Tyson and Holyfield. Upper cuts, left hooks, jab, jab, jab. It was round fifteen, and the horrible dreams had started playing dirty. Biting, kicking, clawing at Sam. All Dean could do was sit ringside ringing the bell round after round, because Sam wouldn't talk to him, because Sam wouldn't let him throw in the white towel. He had to keep the kid's mind on something other than Jessica.

Slapping both hands to his knees, Dean stood. "Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen," Dean said using some sort of crazy pirate-speak. Sam didn't laugh or chuckle as Dean had hoped. "Let's go check out this lighthouse," he said switching back to regular Dean.

"No argument?" Sam asked, bewilderment in his tone.

"Aaaarrrggghhh," Dean cackled in his crazy voice again as he stuffed his belongings into his duffel.

"Aaaarrrggghhh?" Sam smirked.

"Move, ye' saucy wench" Dean snatched the keys off the dresser.

"Jerk," Sam said from behind, wondering why his brother gave in so easy. "Can I drive?" he tested the waters.

"Don't push it," Dean said, in Dean speak. "Ye' cowardly cabin boy, least ye' be shark bait," he added, once again using his new found voice.

"Who are you supposed to be, anyway, Spongebob, Popeye or Sybil?"

"Dude, you suck, I'm a pirate." Dean opened the door and stepped out into the early morning light.

Sam switched off the motel room light and shut the door hoping to leave the nightmares behind him.

TBC…

Note:: story is complete.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

KEEPING WATCH

Chapter two

AN: Thank you so much again, Caroline for giving so freely of her time to look this over. All other mix-ups and oops are my own doing. And thank you most sincerely for your time in reading. Sunshine, Karen

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They'd driven all day, only stopping twice; once for lunch and once to fuel and piss.

As the sun went down, blue skies and white clouds were slowly snuffed out, replaced by the purplish pink-carnation shadows of dusk. The shouts and cries of distant seagulls and the cool stream of wind played backup to Tom Petty's Free Falling. The sleek black car moved down a long twisting road. Gravel snap, crackle, and popping under the sporty wheels as the Impala rolled to a stop.

"Arrrr, me hearty, we be here," Dean announced in a deep throaty tone, turning the car off and peering out the windshield. "She be a high, lofty tower."

Sam shook his head at his brother's continued pirate lingo that had somehow magically swept his nightmare to the back of his brain.

Early evening shadows spread across the white granite lighthouse. Plenty of windows were carved into the stony walls, some glassless and open to the destruction of rain and wind; the lamp room no longer guiding ships through dangerous waters. The tower was nestled at the end of a long rocky break wall, overlooking the lake and surrounded by a tall, chain link fence. Sweeping, greenish dirty-brown waves crashed roughly against the cluster of gigantic, treacherous looking boulders that jutted out across the lake; leading to the base of the square-shaped lighthouse, like a bridge.

Dean moaned, "Be brutal and fierce swashbuckling our way out to Davy Joness' locker." Dean pointed toward the break wall. "That thar stone bridge is not for the lily-livered, or feint of heart."

Sam nodded, his gaze fixated out the front windshield. "Worse trying to make our way back in the dark," he added.

"I, scurvy seadog, that tit is. What say ye'?" Dean asked. "Walk the plank?"

Sam pulled his shoulders back and sat up straighter in his seat. He felt like his back was up against a wall. Jess was dead. Dad, missing. Dean so damn determined to follow dad's orders as if the man were standing erect before him, the stern face of a commanding officer barking out instructions that had better be followed to the very last letter. Sam, he just wanted to somehow rewind his life.

Sam cleared his throat and reached for a bottle of water, he moved slowly these days, the crushing burden weighing him down. It'd been weeks. Six to be exact. He just wanted to find the monster that killed his girlfriend. He'd spent day and night, night and day researching - burning haystack after haystack, and still found no needle, not even a piece of thread. He ached so badly. Inside and out. So much so, he was going numb - the kind of numb that invaded souls, froze hearts - than broke, falling off piece-by-piece and blown away by the smallest of wind.

"Just want to do the job, okay?" Sam said ignoring his brother's crazy Pirates of the Caribbean routine, taking a small sip of water and staring out the window. He capped the water and set it back on the seat, long bangs bobbing to cover his bloodshot eyes that were rimmed in purple shadows.

A few silent seconds stretched between them. Sam could feel Dean keeping watch. He was always keeping watching; especially when he didn't think Sam was looking. But Sam knew. He could feel Dean's stare. Swore he could hear Dean's blood rushing with worry in his ears. In the daytime, in the nighttime, breakfast time, lunch time, dinner time, pull- over-I-gotta-take-a-leak time. Dean kept watch brother-over-brother. All the watching - at first - served to warm Sam's frozen and breaking heart, but now the constant sidelong glances and out-of the-corner-of-Dean's eye, looks - were driving Sam nuts.

Dean was doing it again. Watching. Glaring. His green eyes like a bright flare piercing Sam's inner darkness. For a long while Sam kept his eyes averted, waiting for Dean to say something, when he didn't Sam turned in his seat - squarely their eyes met.

"What?" Sam frowned.

"Avast ye' scallywag," Dean continued with his pirate theme, completely aware of how pale Sam was and how his fingers always seemed to twitch, unconsciously. "Ye' be a landlubber, whilst I pillage for booty." Dean waggled his brow.

"Gross." Sam made a disgusting face.

"Dude," Dean said in his usual, Dean voice, "Get your mind out of the gutter, man, means hunting for treasure in pirate language, or, "Dean tilted his head, "In this case, ghosts."

"Dean, pirates - ship. Lighthouse - lighthouse keeper," Sam said in total irritation, "So you can stop doubling-up on your adjectives. Savvy?"

"Huh?"

"Mean's do you understand," Sam raised both hands, wiggling two fingers, indicating quotation marks," In pirate language."

"Look, Sam," Dean huffed, "You need to take a mini vacation. Need rest," he said, now using his 'father knows best voice, "I'll take care of checking out our ghost."

"I'm fine," Sam huffed back.

"You're smart, Sam," Dean said, "One of the smartest guys I know, but you're not the smartest at hiding how…not fine…you really are."

Sam gave Dean a heated glare before exiting the car, slamming the passenger door so hard the Impala rocked off her tires.

Dean flinched. " That went well. Sorry, baby." He caressed the steering wheel tenderly. "He didn't mean it," Dean cooed. Glancing at the side view mirror, he watched Sam dejectedly gather weapons out of the trunk and stuffing both their duffels. "Bro, what am I going to do with you?" he sighed, getting out of the car and shutting his door with great care.

"Doesn't look like they use this old tower any more," Dean noted, coming to stand beside Sam.

"Obviously," Sam slammed the trunk down as hard as he'd slammed his door.

Dean pretended not to notice, running his fingertips faintly over the trunk.

"Stop that." Sam shouldered his duffel.

"What?" Dean feigned innocence.

"It's a car, man, not a delicate flower."

Dean bent low and whispered to the car, "Sh, baby, he just doesn't understand you like I do."

Sam's jaw ticked in frustration.

"What?" Dean straightened. "So, we're close."

Sam made a disgusted face.

"Dude." Dean one-handedly whacked Sam across the back of his head. "We're not that close."

"Ouch, hey," Sam grumbled. "Whatever, man, here." He handed Dean his duffel bag, shouldering his own. "You done?"

"Yes."

"We can go now?" Sam arched his brows in question.

"Yes," Dean answered.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Sam glanced down at Dean's fingers, still tenderly caressing the trunk. "Do it," he ordered.

"Do what?" Dean cocked his head in confusion

"Kiss her goodbye." Sam stormed off taking long, hurried, angry strides toward the break- wall.

He'd kissed Jessica goodbye that day he'd left with Dean. But never in his wildest dreams would he have thought it would be their last. Maybe after this hunt, Sam could get through the next job without missing her so much, without letting every little thing - a word, a song, a color, the whisper of the wind - remind him of her. He couldn't stop thinking about how much he loved her, how responsible for her death.

"Wait up." Dean trotted beside him. "So, where's there a body buried?"

"There isn't."

"Tell me why we're here again?"

"Fish where the fish are, Dean."

"Huh?" Dean cocked his head in confusion. "Want to explain your fish philosophy, Sammy."

Sam shook his head. "Look, there's tons of lore about haunted lighthouses. And since this ones construction in 1861 its been surrounded by death and tragedy. Place seems to be attracting residual energy, like the spirits are drawn to the light, in much the same way a ship is drawn by its beacon," Sam said, more thinking out loud than talking to Dean, "The name of the place itself is a symbol of darkness. So, we're doing what dad wants. Hunting ghosts where ghosts hang out. "

"Raven's Point," Dean mumbled, following Sam down the weed-filled gravel path that led to the break wall and the lighthouse.

"Ravens are messengers of death, Dean."

"No duh," Dean grouched. "So, we got a bunch of freak deaths over the years and no bodies to burn," Dean tsked. "Place is old, man, its seen multiple lifetimes, there's bound to be mishap and bad luck.

"I don't call someone dying every eighteen years a freak death. There's a pattern here. Last death was in 87 a young boy fishing off the rocks with his dad drowned and was never found. Another death is going to take place if we don't do something."

"And every eighteen years a ghostly young girl in her early twenties is sighted walking the catwalk at night, wearing a long white dress." Dean covertly peered at Sam. He may not have known exactly what horrible nightmares fed on his brother's brain at night, but he had heard Sam mumbling in his sleep. Dean sighed a long breathy sigh, he didn't dare muddy Sam and Jess' love with his own sick imagination of how she'd actually look in the long, white dress Sam often muttered unknowingly about. "Sam," Dean called gently, "You sure this isn't about…"

"It's a hunt," Sam swallowed hard, "Something to check out. It's what you said dad wants us to be doing, and since we can't find dad or anything else we're going to…"

"Check this out."

"Right." Sam followed behind Dean as they made their way across the treacherous, rocky break wall toward the lighthouse.

As steady on their feet as Sam and Dean usually were, they struggled across the chunky granite. Keeping balance was difficult, one side of their bodies being weighted down with their heavy rucksacks, causing them to move much slower than they were used to moving.

The huge, slabs of rock were strung together like a giant concrete necklace, the road not so smooth as the brothers had to jump over wide, jagged spaces from time to time. Down between the holes they could see water jutting in and out, bringing with it gunky lake sand, dead fish and algae slimed junk. They stepped around brush and small trees growing out of the cracks in the rock. It was windy, the water choppy, splashing up at them from both sides, and the air smelled like a large vat of bad calm chowder.

"Uh," Dean sniffled rubbing at his nose. "Won't find a bouquet of roses around here."

"Or wildflowers." Sam cringed, suddenly distracted by more thoughts of Jessica.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_The first time he'd seen her she was across the lawn sitting under the shade of a tall tree. She was beautiful. Her eyes. Her face. Her hair. Everything. She was reading a thick, hardback book, sipping a Coke, not diet like some girls, but a real, honest to goodness, full of calories, Coke. The closer he got the more beautiful she was. Sam got a down to earth feeling in the pit of his stomach. A feeling he never had before in his life. It felt good, it felt normal and he was drawn to her like magic, like some fairytale storybook prince charming. Sam slowly walked her way, dazed, enchanted, not sure what he was going to do or say. A million pickup lines ran through his head. He wasn't here to meet girls. He was here to study. To make a new life for himself. Normally, he'd never even have approached her. What was he doing?_

_'Can you hear that sound? That is the sound of the ambulance coming to get me because when I saw you my heart stopped beating.'_

_It was the first pickup line that popped into his head, stupid, totally not storybok prince charming, yet the line was so true. Sam felt as if his heart had stopped beating the moment he laid eyes on her. Dean would have laughed his ass off at the mere mention of the cheap line. His dashing and debonair brother didn't use pickup lines. He would have simply swaggered up to her, told her his name and she would have been all a giggle - Silly Putty in his big brother's capable hands. Meeting girls didn't come that easy to Sam._

_Before he knew it, Sam was standing before her._

_"Can I help you?" She asked politely._

_Sam shook his head unable to stop staring __at the cute way she wrinkled her nose at the sunlight that dappled down through the branches of the tree. He opened his mouth, but his stopped heart must have crept up into his throat and he couldn't get any words past the meaty lump._

_"Are you lost?" She asked, scrunching her nose even cuter than before._

_"Um, you have a really beautiful...uh...nose…'eh…" Sam nervously ran a hand through his hair, pulling his bangs away from his eyes. "What I mean is, your nose is so, 'eh, pretty," he stumbled, what was he saying?_

_She said nothing, just kept staring brightly at him, utter amusement shining in her eyes._

_Sam shoved both hands deep in his jacket pockets. "What I want to say is… you have a nice…uh, so, you know…gah…I…"_

_Oh, man, he was messing up so badly. Crap. Stupid, Sam. Stupid, stupid._

_"Hey, Sam," a voice called from behind. "I see you've met Jessica."_

_"Jessica Moore," Brady smirked, putting an arm around Sam. "This is my new roommate, and all around good guy, Sam," he said, pulling Sam closer. "Sam, this is Jessica." Brady turned ever so slightly, and whispered into Sam's ear. "Go ahead, man, tell her a little bit about yourself." Brady encouraged Sam with a hard elbow jab to his ribs._

_"Uh, yeah, I, eh…" Sam stuttered some more._

_"Sam just enrolled here," Brady helped out. "Going to be a big-wig lawyer someday. He doesn't smoke, barely drinks, is super shy and the tallest, lamest guy on campus." Brady gestured a hand toward Jessica. "Your turn, Jessica."_

_Jessica folded her book under her arm and stood in front of Sam. "Hi." She held out a hand to shake Sam's. " Jess," she shortened her name, "Who also doesn't drink or smoke. I'm not tall or shy, and you, Sam, certainly don't strike me as lame." She shrugged._

_"If he's not lame, I don't know who or what is?" Brady teased._

_"Roses are lame," Jessica said firmly._

_"Why do you think that?" Sam asked, swallowing down his heart that suddenly decided to start beating again - pounding in his chest like mad._

_"There's no law that says you have to spend a million dollars to make a girl smile, is there, Sam?" Jessica smiled hugely at Sam._

_"Care to discuss that theory over a cup of coffee?" Sam asked softly, relaxing a bit._

_Jessica nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."_

__

"Have fun you two," Brady said with great satisfaction as quickly strolled off.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sam!" Dean's voice pulled Sam from the memory with an almost electrifying jolt. "I asked you if you were okay back there," Dean held up three fingers, "Three times now."

"Crap." Sam slipped on a wet rock. Damn, he'd broken dad's cardinal rule:

**Constantly be aware of where you are, what the hell is going on around you, and what you're stepping into next.**

Tripping over himself, Sam's right leg dipped down into one of the break wall's holes, and he struggled on his left leg to stay upright.

"Nuh," Sam cried, fingers scrabbling to hold on to his duffle, sharp craggy rock scrapping his leg bloody, and ripping his jeans.

"Hey, ho." Dean whirled, grabbing hold of Sam's jacket collar just in time to save his little brother from pitching into the slimy lake. "You didn't get a load of the "No Swimming" sign back there, did you?" Dean kept a firm hold of Sam as he pulled him upright. "Ouch." Dean peered down at ripped material and stream of blood dripping down Sam's now pulpy looking flesh. "You suck." He glanced at the funnel-shaped hole shaking his head

"Thanks," Sam mumbled, hiking his duffle more securely up on his shoulder. "Didn't get a load of the "Slippery When Wet" sign, either."

"You okay to keep going?" Dean frowned. "Who were you day dreaming about?" Dean waggled his brow. "Collin Farrell?"

"What," Sam screeched with disgust. "No."

"Yeah, well, just pay attention and be careful, klutz," Dean warned, pointing a finger at the sloshing green waves below. "Water's cold and wet and stinks like yesterday's news."

"Next time I'll plan my trip better." Sam pulled away from Dean; he didn't need his big brother keeping watch like he was ten and on his first hunt. Taking more tentative steps, Sam put thoughts of Jessica out of his mind, instead replacing them with thoughts of dad.

Even after all these years he remembered the day he went on his first hunt, recalling his father's stern orders to Dean.

__

'I got the shotgun. Caleb, the holy water. Dean, you man the flashlight and don't dare let go of your brother's hand, you hear me?'

"You do know that's no hot tub around us, right Sam? Sam. Sam!"

Dean's voice shook Sam back to the present yet again. _Damn he needed to stay focused._

"I said pay attention, man."

"I am."

"Uh-huh, prove it." Dean's disbelieving voice floated from behind.

"Hot tub sounds nice," Sam joked lightly, hoping Dean bought that.

"That's my klutzy boy," Dean laughed heartily.

Sam tensed, his peevish boo-boo lip showing itself.

Dean didn't take the bait. Sam could sense his brother's gaze skull-burning the back of his head once more.

TBC….


	3. Chapter 3

KEEPING WATCH

Chapter three

The six-foot tall rusted chain link fence was obviously meant to keep people out. That didn't work for Sam and Dean. They approached the barrier at a full on run. Like a high performance machine, all parts working in harmony, they climbed. Left foot, right foot, hand-over-hand, up-and-over, jumping down and landing sure-footed and bent knee absorbing the shock on the other side.

Dean dry brushed his hands together. "Easy enough." He glanced over at Sam. "How's the leg, jinx?"

"Fine, Dean, just stop looking at me all the time." Sam gazed down, his lower lip poked out further as he wobbled unsteadily on his well-scrapped up, bloody leg. "Driving me nuts with that."

Dean ducked his head, catching Sam's eye. "Awww, Sammy, you doing your Boo-boo kitty impersonation for me?" Dean playfully ruffled Sam's hair. "Was a cute look for you when you were all pimply and hormonal, wuss, now it's just plain weird."

"Dude, get off me." Sam smacked Dean's hand away.

"Hey," Dean backed off, hands raised, "Just sayin'." He swiftly turned and sauntered to the peeling, red-painted door that hung loosely from the entrance of the lighthouse. "Seriously, leg hurt much?" Dean asked.

"Little," Sam admitted softly, hobbling to stand in front of the heavy, slightly ajar door. Thanks for asking."

"Want me to cut it off?" Dean's way of saying suck it up.

"Yeah, that'd help." Sam swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, pout-lip disappearing like magic. "I'm fine, just lay-off."

"You're one facetious kid, Sam." Dean smiled at Sam.

"Big word for you, Dean. You think I'm clever and witty?"

"No, man, moody, unpredictable, like a chick on her monthly cycle." Dean reached over to tap Sam playfully on the cheek.

"Don't touch me." Sam rolled his eyes. "And I think you mean capricious, Dean."

"Whatever, Aunt Flow." Gripping the round iron handle, Dean pushed the door open the rest of the way. Its hinges protested, a high pitched creaking like an old woman's back. Cobwebs wisped about as they were caught off guard by the sudden breeze.

Sam paused, a tremor running up his spine.

"You waiting for me to carry you over the threshold, sweetheart?" Dean chuckled.

Sam huffed and strutted past, pulling a small flashlight from his pocket.

Sam knew what his brother was doing. Dean's strategies and tactics were fascinating - mess with, sidetrack, and totally piss-off your little brother to ground him into the here and now, keep him focused. Keep that galaxy far, far away look out of Sam's eyes.

It was stupid, but always seemed to work.

Sam searched the space. The cement floor of the octagonal shaped room was cracked, dusty, and full of spiders and scurrying rats. Graffiti covered the walls, empty beer boxes were scattered around along with buckets and buckets of nothing but scraps of fish bones, broken dishes, mold, mildew and an assortment of indescribable and unsanitary things.

"Homey." Sam muttered sarcastically as he let the flashlight's beam continue to shine about the musty room.

"Only if you're a rat," Dean truthfully muttered back.

"I think their kinda cute." Sam grinned widely. "That one likes you." He pointed down toward a small rat sniffing around the toe of Dean's boot.

"Gawddamn." Dean leapt back, frantically looking around.

"No chair to stand on, bro," Sam laughed.

"Shut up." Dean quickly moved through a small archway, Sam followed finding themselves in the attached lighthouse keeper's quarters.

A small kitchen adorned a rust corroded sink, an old wood burning stove that was coated in soot, a few iron pots, kettles, and torn flour sacks strewn about the broken blue tiled ceramic flooring.

They moved through another small archway slowly, noting what appeared to be three smaller door-less alcoves that were probably used as sleeping accommodations. One overturned, near useless cot lay on the floor, its mattress rat-chewed exposing springs and coils. Finding nothing more, they moved back out to the main lighthouse area.

In the middle of the square house, it was odd to see a round spiraling staircase looking more like a fire escape, looping upward.

"May as well check out the poop deck. It's where all the sightings have been right?"

"Crow's nest," Sam corrected.

"You got it?" Dean raised a brow.

"Course." Sam pulled the EMF reader from his jacket pocket.

"You got yours?"

"Always." Dean fished out a small, silver flask, untwisted the cap and took a drink.

"Dude." Irritated, Sam thrust his flashlight at Dean, "Here."

Capping the flask, Dean manned the flashlight.

Gripping the curving handrail, they started up the iron staircase, carting their duffel bags along with them, slowing their pace. The stairs were narrow and even with the bright, white light bouncing upon each step, it was hard to see. As they clanked their way upward to the lamp room, Dean thought about the life of a lighthouse keeper in the 1800's, before batteries, and Casa Erotica or twist-top beer bottles. Lighthouses were remote, solitary, lonely and forlorn places. Harsh days, harsher nights. Limited supplies. Weren't their keepers a lot like pirates? How'd they manage to stumble, their tipsy asses up all these stairs after downing several steins full of grog? Dean was operating at full capacity, and still was huffing and puffing as he gripped the handrail pulling himself upward.

"One hundred and seventy-six," Dean panted as they reached the top.

"One hundred and seventy-six, what?" Sam swiped the drops of sweat off his brow, passing the EMF over an empty sea trunk.

"Trombones," Dean snipped totally out of breath, "Steps, Sam, what'd you think?"

"You're lucky Cape Hatteras isn't haunted." Sam nodded at the flashlight in Dean's hand. "Don't need that."

Dean flicked the beam off and pocketed the flashlight. Moonlight gleamed in through the broken windows giving the room a pale, blanched look.

"And I suppose you know how many steps Hatteras has," Dean said sourly, circling the room, his boots stepping on an accumulation of bird droppings and shards of glass that crunched like peanut shells on the wooden floor.

"Two hundred and sixty-eight," Sam said, without a second's hesitation, taking in the array of junk that lay strewn about.

"Geek-bitch." Dean checked out the lamp in the center of the room, the lens was shattered and the copper tarnished from years of no use.

"Thanks." Sam turned over the skeletal remains of an old wooden barrel, guessing it was once used to store whale oil, the fuel of choice that lit the wicks in the 1800's.

Dean tsked, flipping open the lid of a metal toolbox and rummaged around, finding the usual trappings inside "Geek-bitch is not a compliment, Sam."

"Taken as one, Dean." Sam kicked aside an over turned chair, still waving the EMF around. He paused to stare out what was left of the lighthouse's storm panels that surrounded the room "You're right about this place not being used in years," he said, "Fresnel lens is as shattered as the windows."

"Fern what?"

Sam hiked a thumb over his shoulder. "Giant glass beehive you were looking at before."

"Oh."

"Nowadays, with GPS and modern navigation to direct passing ships away from rocky coves, there's not much use for these places. Most are either in disrepair, about to be torn down, turned into museums or…"

"Or hangouts for ghosts," Dean cut in.

The wind kicked up passing through Sam's hair. A wistful feel came over him. Jessica had been fascinated by lighthouses. To her, they were awe-inspiring. A symbol of safety, of sea-swept scenery, and the dreamy romanticism of painters and poets. As with Halloween - a holiday Jessica loved - Sam didn't share in her enthusiasm. There was plenty of not so awe-inspiring legend and lore behind almost every lighthouse he'd ever researched; ranking them high on Sam's top ten most unwanted list - Halloween, of course, being the first.

He pictured him and Jessica under the moonlight, outside on the catwalk. Their hands winding together, looking out over the star-twinkled blackened sea. The image was Jessica's dream, her vision. She once painted a picture in their shared art class of the romantic notion. Sam was going to have the artwork framed for her birthday, but like Jess, the painting and all their dreams had also gone up in a ball of licking, orange flames and evil blood-dabbled smoke.

"Hey," Dean called over to him, loudly.

"Huh?" Sam startled.

"What you see?" Dean asked suspiciously, there was that damn far, far away galaxy look again. Always putting Sam in a dead spin. Hunt or not, Sam needed to keep his head in the game, his back always against a wall. Dad had always thought that a good position, least you could see what was coming at you - head on. But Dean knew, Sam had seen too much, and it nearly broke the kid in two, maybe it still would.

"Nothing," Sam stated flatly, quickly turning away from the view and striding to the opposite side of the room.

"Except what haunts your dreams, bro," Dean whispered to himself, walking over to the window where Sam had been staring and wondering what exactly it was Sam was holding back from him.

"What'd you say?" Sam asked irately not able to quite hear his brother's whisperings.

"Nothing." The flesh on the back of Dean's neck prickled, standing the tiny hairs on end - his inner radar, like his brotherly instincts - on high alert. "Something's here," he turned slowly away from the window, "I can feel it. You?" He looked across the way at Sam.

"I feel it," Sam said, staring at the silent EMF. He knew Dean well. Hunting spirits and supernatural beings brought out the warrior in his otherwise chick ditching, pie eating brother - EMF be damned.

Dean stepped over. "Let me see that." He swiped the homemade machine from Sam smacking the side of the detector, repeatedly. "What's wrong with this thing? I know…" The detector screeched its protest to being manhandled. "Yo-ho-ho." Dean gave the thumbs up sign, watching the colored lights squeal back and forth across the handheld reader like a jukebox gone haywire.

Sam cocked his head. "How'd you do that?"

"Fonzerelli touch."

"What's that? An Italian dish?"

"No, man. Fonzerelli. Dude in a leather jacket, says aaaeeyyyy all the time, once jumped a shark on water skies."

Sam looked dumbfounded.

"Cool personified." Dean's brow arched high on his forehead.

Sam shrugged.

"Bro, do you ever watch anything other than Jeopardy?"

"I like Alex, besides I rather read than watch…"

Sam suddenly shivered as something unnatural glided past him. "Dean, over there." He pointed toward a hazy mist that began to form before his eyes.

"Son of a biscuit eater!" Dean yelled using his jolly pirate tone of voice as he moved to stand shoulder-to shoulder with Sam. A tangible shiver went down both their spines. Didn't matter how many times they ran into a ghost, the excitement and edgy fear was always there.

"Here we go," Dean growled, expertly dropping his pack and exchanging the EMF for his sawed-off he'd had hidden in his jacket.

Sam did the same.

The mist hovered and slowly took the shape of a woman. The draft of air floating through the panels howled about the lamp room, kicking up the debris on the floor.

The face of a leering woman in a white gown appeared before Sam, her head twisting in an unnatural way. "Why? Why did you leave me?" Her words a dagger stabbed to his heart. "Why did you? You left me to die," she spoke over and over again.

Sam was spellbound, the twist of the emotional dagger hindering any thoughts he may have had of pulling the trigger.

**Bang!**

Dean stood dutifully next to Sam, sawed-off held firm in his outstretched arm. "You going to go all Oprah on me, bro?"

Sam didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes." Dean shuffled protectively closer. "Sammy. You know better than to listen to that crap."

Sam cringed, turning to face Dean.

"You, okay?" Dean questioned.

"Think so."

"Good, you got the purification bags, let's keelhaul this bitch."

"Keelhaul, Dean?" Sam crouched, nabbing his duffle he frowned noting the bag was half- open, quickly he unzipped it the rest of the way.

"Yeah, keelhaul. You know, Sam, drag her barnacle-encrusted ass across the ocean floor."

"You're really taking this pirate thing too far." Sam dug deeper into the bag, almost frantic.

"Dude, what?"

Sam glanced up just in time to see an old man, with scraggly storm-gray hair and beard, wearing a heavy dark blue coat with brass buttons that shined to a polish, appear.

"Behind you, behind you," Sam shouted.

Dean spun around, instinctively aiming at his target and firing off a shot.

"Bye, bye, Captain Bligh." He turned back to Sam. "What the hell is drawing all this activity? Sam, give me the bags."

Sam stood. "I don't have the stupid bags. Shit!" He raised his gun and shot as the woman wearing the long, white gown reappeared.

"What do you mean, you don't have the stupid bags? Bitch!" Dean blasted a young woman, wearing a violet dress, and a yellow ribbon in her hair. "Damn, they're gathering here like ants at a picnic."

"The stupid bags," Sam panted, "They've gone missing." Sam's turn to smoothly peg Captain Bligh, sending ghost guts glittering outward like stardust.

"Missing? How? You packed them. I saw you put all four in your princess-purple Dungeons and Dragons cloth bag." Dean gapped at Sam in classic, WTF moment.

Sam, too distressed, and busy with target practice to make a smart ass comeback said, "It's gone, they're all gone." He ran a hand through his hair, then in a light bulb moment said, "Must have fallen out when I slipped on the rocks." Sam waited for Dean to rant and rave and say how bad he sucked, but he didn't.

Ghosts kept popping in one at a time. Dean and Sam taking turns firing, like some crazy carnival shooting gallery.

"Man, we're not shooting metal milk bottles here. Won't be long before they gather and start firing back." Dean heard tiny scratching behind him. He whirled and shot, nailing a rat, fur and intestinal track splattering the over turned box it was trying to crawl under.

"Dude." Sam titled his head. "You don't get bonus points for shooting everything that moves."

"Oops," Dean grumbled, whirling he took another shot, this time hitting the girl in white in the head, the ghost evaporating in a puff of fog. "Only one thing to do, Sam," Dean informed, "Iron staircase, they can't follow. One of us has to go back and try to find the hole you're jinx, klutz ass fell in, hope the stupid bags didn't get washed away."

Sam's protest was interrupted by a winter-white vapor that swept in like a tornado, spinning counterclockwise and noisily around the room. The mist savagely began to magnetically suck up everything off the floor sending the debris - and the ghosts, as well - circling above them in a mad rush.

"What the hell?" Dean bellowed above the force of the wind. "This some sort of piss-poor Wizard of Oz reenactment?"

"Dean, get down," Sam yelled as they were attacked by a bombardment of fast moving objects.

Throwing himself on Dean, Sam dropped them both to the floor, narrowly missing the hammer that would certainly have inflicted damage to Dean's head - if not killing him.

Sam and Dean lay pressed back-to-back on the glass-shattered floor.

"What to do?" Sam flipped to face Dean in a game-plan huddle. "Oh, no," Sam muttered, "I don't like that jacked up look you're wearing. What are you planning?"

"Let the good times roll." Dean shoved his sawed-off at Sam. "Here."

"Dean. No."

"Sam, they can't follow me, iron staircase."

Sam held fast to both weapons not liking where this was going, but go it would. He knew with his injured leg, Dean would be the faster runner, and they needed those bags.

"Blow the man down, Sammy."

"Wha'?"

"Just keep shooting."

"For how long?"

Dean shrugged. "Until you run out of ghosts or rock salt."

"Good plan, Dean," Sam said, dully.

"Thanks." Dean regarded Sam uneasily. "Hold 'em off, bro. I'll be back before you can say yippie-kay-yay mother fu…"

"Go!" Sam leapt to his feet, twin sawed-offs turned machine guns, smoothly unloading salt rounds at anything that moved. Left, right and left again.

Under the cover of his brother, Dean shoulder-rolled to the staircase. He took the stairs so fast he missed a few steps and nearly pitched over the side of the rail several times.

"Keep firing, Sammy, hold 'em off," Dean panted.

**Bang, bang, bang.**

The sound of his baby brother's gunfire faded with each step Dean took. Leaving Sam, scared the crap out of him but they needed the purification bags.

Necessity - the mother of everything suck-ass!

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

KEEPING WATCH

AN: Thank you again to Caroline, for taking time out of her busy day to help me with this. Much needed! And much appreciated! Thank you, my friend!

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean gulped hard at the air as he ran, his over-shirt flapping in the wind. He sure as hell wasn't happy about leaving his hunting partner behind, but the purification bags were their only defense. Someone had to go back for them so they could Scooby Doo the hell out of this place, and he was the closest to the staircase, and not the jinx/ klutz his brother apparently was. He went as fast as he could. Backtracking. Taking the one hundred and seventy-six steps, two sometimes three at a time. He darted out the lighthouse keeper's quarters, through the archway of the peeling, red painted door. Hand over hand, he climbed up and over the chain link fence. Dropping straight down, to the other side, he hit his full stride. Running back across the rocky break wall, hoping he remembered the spot where his clumsily brother had fallen into the stupid hole.

The condition of the break wall had become more dangerous to navigate. The night tide sloshed and slapped up upon the pitted surface, and the dark, dangerous rocks all looked the same. He was too far away from the lighthouse now to hear the boom of the sawed-offs. Gunfire meant his brother was still standing, still holding his own. Not knowing what was going on up in that tower scared the living hell out of him, yet, Dean kept his cool. Keeping a vigilant eye out for potholes, his legs moved in rhythm with his fast beating heart, boots slipping across the rock, his jeans soaked to the shins in water. The star speckled sky and moonlit water seemed to join together so that Dean felt like he was suspended in mid-air or perhaps swimming in a giant black cauldron.

He was tired, his legs cold and cramping, but he stubbornly ran faster until he stumbled and nearly fell. Puffing out of breath, Dean shined the flashlight's beam down into a cone shaped hole. Looked like the same hole his brother had fell in.

"Come on, come on." His grip tightened around the casing of the flashlight as his hand began to shake strongly with anticipation. What if the pouch had been washed away, or damaged by lake water.

He forced himself to concentrate, moving the beam slowly as he searched along every crack, crevices and smallest of crannies.

"Ahoy thar, matey," he drawled, eyes widening with excitement when his flashlight's beam landed on the pouch not far down, damn it, he was on lucky bastard. Hide a needle in a haystack, he'd find the bitch every time, so why couldn't he win that lottery. He played often enough.

After a quick phone call to Sam letting him know what was going on, Dean belly dropped, and reached a hand down. He groped along the rock, inching his body a time or two a little further over the craggy edge, until his fingers finally came in contact with the pouch. He had to tug and pull a minute to free the string that had gotten hung up on a jagged piece of the rock, but he had it.

Everything would be okay, now, he kept telling himself. He'd get back to Sam before the kid ran out of ammo. They could blow this taco stand.

But everything wasn't okay.

A funny feeling came over Dean. Not funny, hysterical, or funny crazy, but funny like electricity just shot right through him causing his heart to skip a beat.

Pouch in hand, Dean turned to look over his shoulder, his gaze automatically rising to peer up at the lighthouse tower. Out of the darkness shot a strong beam of light, tracking back and forth. "What the," he muttered in shock.

The supposedly useless lamplight was lit, bright points of illumination cutting through the shadowy fog. Inside the beam of light appeared to be several ghostly figures, human in form - traveling toward the lighthouse - almost as if they were being drawn in. Crossing into the unknown after death was a confusing thing. Unsettled spirits often misread and misinterpreted the universe around them - the world they knew no longer existing. Going into the light, after one had died was a charming theory - one Dean never believed in.

"Stupid ghosts," Dean murmured.

_No wonder there were so many spirits up in that damn tower. _Dean blinked several times, there was something else.

Something that crippled his breathing and pumped him full of fear. He bit down on his lower lip until it bled. Was he seeing things?

He looked to the rocky base of the lighthouse, then drug his eyes back upward. There it was again, the flicker of a familiar silhouette against the overly bright light. Long, willowy legs swung in the breeze, the shadow struggling, hanging helplessly off the side of the tower. Even from this distance he knew what/who it was.

"Sammy," Dean gulped in a bubble of air, crap he wasn't seeing things. "Son of a bitch." A sickening thing spurred him deep in his gut.

Dean scrabbled back across the rock, very aware of the slickness beneath his feet. The evening tide had come in, splashing white-capped waves up higher crashing over the break wall. He was forced to slow, planting each footfall securely and firmly to the rock. No way he could risk a header into the churning lake, Sam needed him now. "Damn it," Dean swore, dividing his attention between where he was stepping and his helplessly dangling brother. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Dean cursed, blundering his way back, losing his footing more than once as he went.

Sam was in trouble. Sam was going to fall. Smash into the jagged rock below. God, if that happened, Dean wouldn't even recognize the kid. Sam would be an anvil- shaped lump, like the coyote was in his all time favorite Loony Tunes episodes.

Dean hated that episode. Why couldn't the coyote ever catch a break? Dean guessed for the same reasons he and Sam couldn't - they were cursed. Well, curses be damned. Dean wasn't going to watch his brother hurtle face first into the rocks and smash like a hollowed out pumpkin full of chili.

There was no more time for caution as Dean poured on the speed.

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Everything was suddenly quiet, a little too quiet. Sam deftly moved toward the staircase, but the moment he did a volley of objects shot his way. He dropped and rolled away from the steps, alternating fire and picking off two ghosts as he went. He came up to his feet panting, standing in the middle of the room, and all was quiet again. Damn ghosts weren't going to let him leave, and with his inured leg he'd never be fast enough to really try.

Sam checked the weapons, he was almost out of ammo. He felt like a gunslinger in a black and white movie, double fisting the sawed-offs, but he was no hero, he didn't save people, he got people killed. A scratching sound came from behind and Sam whirled, the tip of his firearm pointing right, the tip of Dean's, left, ready to send another hail of salt into any spirit that dared show.

Just another rat.

Sam sighed and eased off the trigger as the rodent scurried away.

_Dean should be over the fence and on the break wall by now. _Sam peered down at his torn jeans, his leg hurt, but not as much as his pride. Damn him for breaking dad's rule. Once upon a time, breaking dad's rules had been Sam's only goal. But being caught unaware, slipping into that hole, losing the protection bags - it was unprofessional and stupid. How could he have been so stupid?

His mind was always wandering; he just couldn't stop dreaming about Jess. Dreaming? Hell! Awake or asleep or on a hunt - didn't matter anymore. She was everywhere. Always there. He felt like he was losing his mind. He'd see her standing in the checkout line at the grocery store. Peering in through a laundry room window. Standing on an overpass as the Impala drove under. Always in her white night gown - the one she liked to wear when they were about to make love. Always silent, never moving. Always just staring at him with no emotion on her face. As if she was trying to figure out just what kind of monster he really was.

And he was a monster.

The worst kind. He could have stopped her death. He dreamt about it for weeks before it happened, but he ignored the slap in the face. Why couldn't he have been burning and bleeding on the ceiling - he wouldn't have cared. He was angry, could feel the hatred slowly taking him over. He didn't want justice, he wanted payback.

God help him, he couldn't tell Dean. Bad enough he couldn't keep his burning flesh and leaking blood nightmares from his ever watchful brother. Dean probably already thought he was one fruit loop shy of a bowl; if he only knew how Jessica's ghost haunted him - even before her death - he'd lock Sam in a closet and stand guard over the door.

Speaking of Dean, Sam frowned. No way his brother was going to find the lost bag. The break wall was no eighteen-hole mini-golf course - a bullet-riddled hunk of Swiss cheese had less gaps. Dean could be poking around on the uneven rock searching until the cows came home, and Sam was fairly certain he hadn't seen a cow anywhere - in months.

"So much for Scooby Dooing the hell out of this taco stand," he mumbled, taking a chance and heading toward the staircase once more.

"You killed her," a totally pissed-off ghost whispered in his ear.

"Eh." Sam froze, Damn ghosts, he hated when they did that - reading his soul as if it were little more than bathroom graffiti - for all to see.

Sam whirled as a foggy mist seemed to pass right through him; an overpowering, burning push deep inside. Then it was gone.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something glowing. He swung around, ready to fire again, but there was nothing there but the broken beacon that once kept watch, steering ships away from the deadly rocky shore.

"Dean, where are you?" Sam whispered to himself, feeling vulnerable and out in the open - and wasn't he.

Ironically his cell phone rang.

Sam propped his gun between his legs. Freeing one hand he rushed to answer, not even looking at the caller ID. "You find it?" he demanded.

"Ahoy, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam snapped, "Stop screwing around."

"We won the lottery, dude, just call me Mr. Lucky from now on."

"Yeah, well, Mr. Lucky better get back to Mr. I'm Almost Out Of Ammo, and fast." Sam heard a grating noise coming from the lantern itself, pointing Dean's rifle in that direction.

"It's a little ways down on a ledge. Take me a minute. Just hold tight."

The grating noise had stopped and the lantern itself gave a small flicker.

"Hurry." Sam flipped his phone shut, and exchanged it for his weapon.

The lantern flickered again, this time brighter. "Oh, crap." Sam blanched knowingly. He raised an arm to cover his eyes, but was too late as a brilliant burst of white light shot forward, like a cluster bomb going off, the lamp in the lighthouse tower lit.

"Gah," Sam cried out as if the sun itself had dropped from the night sky and dangled on a string before his eyes, burning them out of their sockets.

Sam stumbled backward, nearly dropping both guns. He was completely blinded by the light, his senses knocked for a loop and whirling in confusion and pain. Up was down and down was up, left circle, right circle - and there was no side-to- side. Everything at first was white-washed then dotted black; Sam had lost all sensibilities.

But he didn't need to be all that aware to understand he was sailing through an open window. Splintering shards of glass snagged at his clothes and cut into his right arm on the way out. He landed on his side with a heavy thunk to the grated metal catwalk that circled outside the lighthouse tower. The sawed-offs flung from his hands upon impact and judging by the sound of nothing - had gone over the edge- far from reach.

"Ugh." Sam scrambled to his knees, hard pressing both hands to his eyes.

He was weaponless, backup less, and blinder than a bat - not a good combination

"Nuh," he cried in pain, quickly wrapping his left hand tightly around the burning pain in his right arm. He grimaced, at the warmth of blood seeping out between clinched knuckles. A heavy weight plowed into him - a ghost - sending Sam toppling over the rail of the catwalk. Instinct alone brought his hands up, flailing and grabbing for anything he could get a hold of to stop his fall. He just barely snagged the bar with his uninjured hand, stopping him from crashing to the rocky ground far below - legs swinging in open air.

He was high. Much too high. If he fell, he'd be little more than an anvil- shaped lump.

'Don't look down. Don't look down. Just don't look down.' Sam chuffed at his stupid inside voice. He couldn't see shit. What did it matter where he was looking? Deciding to go with what his brain was telling him anyway, he tilted his head far back, desperate to see something anything, even seeing the ghost bitch leering down at him would have been a delight.

Sam shuddered intensely, somehow managing to pull himself upward. His boot tips barely found purchase as he balanced on the extreme edge of the catwalk.

"Ooof." Sam belly-bent over the rail, gripping the rusted bar with both hands tightly. He became very aware of being watched, one or all of the ghosts was nearby, enjoying themselves, causing the skin on the back of his neck to prickle as static electricity brought the tiny hairs to stand on end. Sam tried to lift a leg up and over, but he was shaking so badly he couldn't manage to bring himself the rest of the way to safety back onto the lighthouse catwalk. "D'n, hurry," he mumbled, allowing his other senses to take over.

The wind whistled in his ears, and blew through his fly-away hair, causing his heart to quicken its pace. More blood bubbled out of the crook of his arm, tacky and dribbling down to coat his hand, taking away from his already precarious fight with gravity. Why hadn't the ghost attacked again? He took in a deep breath and just as he managed to get one leg up and over the top of the rail, a hand stopped him cold, pushing him back over. He must have had an angel on his shoulder as he somehow found himself dangling, holding onto the rung again.

Blood ran in rivulets down the length of his right arm and trickled, drop-by-drop off the end of his fingertips, probably dotting the rocks below. A small precursor of the larger bloodspot to come.

"Gaw damn." His sweaty hand slipped on the cool, rust-corroded banister. Knowing how much pain it would cause, he reached up with his cut arm and grasped the edge of the catwalk.

A ghost cackled, taunting, every now and again brushing a finger across his knuckles.

"I'm not afraid of you," Sam growled, trying once again to pull himself up, but the pain in his arm cut through every nerve ending in his arm and he nearly let go his hold all together.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, hoping to see the ghost, but all he saw was a lake of black, below, more of the same - both up and down fused together in a blur of blind panic. Sam could only hang there, legs freely flinging around, and kicking outward. The points of his boots hit the granite wall, but the soles of his feet found nothing but air. He wanted to scream for Dean, but his lungs were too busy ballooning in and out, with the fear of falling. Seeing nothing but darkness magnified everything else. His heart was slamming in his head, had the lamplight melted his brain, sending his liquefied wits out his ears. It was hard to breathe, the air up here thin, smelling of dead Carp, the lake air inhibiting his panicked breathing further. For some forsaken reason his nose itched - incessantly.

Don't scratch, don't scratch, don't scratch - his inside voice yet again speaking to him.

TBC::::

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

KEEPING WATCH

Chapter five

Thank you, Caroline, for truly you watched over this story and helped more than you know!

Thank you most sincerely for reading and sticking with. Story is now up and complete.

Sunshine to you, even in darkness and rain,

Karen

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din  
of wings and winds and solitary cries,  
Blinded and maddened by the light within,  
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,  
Still grasping in his hand the fire of love,  
it does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,  
but hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says: "sail on, ye stately ships!  
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;  
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse.  
Be yours to bring man neared unto man.

**The Lighthouse  
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow **

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sam," Dean called from a short distance away. "Hold on." There came the clank, clank of metal, heavy boots navigating over glass, slip-sliding in a frenzied rush. "Son of a…." Dean stood frozen at the top of the spiraling staircase.

Ghostly apparitions spun around the room tornado-style, flinging glass and pieces of debris in angry, chaotic mayhem. If he didn't know better, the sight would have been damn near inspiring.

Without his partner backing him up, Dean had to triple-time his efforts. In aggressive dependableness, he skittered across the floor going straight for the center of the room. Shielding his eyes with his duffle, he headed toward the lit lamplight. With a whole hell of a lot of colorful cursing, Dean stuffed the purification bags into the shattered bee hive-like slots.

"Happy hour's over, bitches," he growled and quickly turned his back away.

There came a loud wham, like someone slamming a giant door closed. Dean ducked down as a gust of heated air blasted into his back nearly teetering him off his feet, but he remained solid.

He whirled, glancing around the now ghost-free room. Everything was quiet, save for the musical tinkling of fragments settling. The moonlight gleaming in through the open windows, twinkled upon the glass-crackled floor; making the jewled shards look like treasure.

"Huh," Dean muttered.

"Dean," Sam yelled.

Gathering his wits, Dean took off sliding sideways out onto the catwalk as if he was skating across a surface of ice. "Son of a bitch," he swore, unable to stop, his right hip ramming against the rail and nearly flipping over himself.

"Holy crap." He righted himself, quickly dropping to his knees and peering through the bars. "Dude!" Sam's hooked fingers were barely gripping the edge of the tower. "I got you." Dean gripped Sam by both wrists just as the kid's strength gave out.

"Nuh!" Sam screeched, dangling wildly and nearly jumping from his skin.

"It's me," Dean panted. "I got you, okay?"

Sam didn't respond. Just swayed precariously, body going stiff with fear and sweating profusely.

"Shit," Dean cursed his own sweaty palms slipping over Sam's.

Without hesitation and in cool confidence, Dean let go one of Sam's wrist for a split millisecond, slapping a hand to Sam's forearm to get a better grip.

"Eh," Sam gave a small cry of pain.

"Sorry," he whispered out of breath. "Bro," Dean said calmly, "I'm going to let go your other wrist. I want you to reach up through the bars and grab hold of me.

Sam blinked rapidly at Dean - stunned into dark helplessness.

"We're good, Sam, reach up and hold on," Dean instructed. "I'll do the rest."

Sam didn't make a move.

"Just reach," Dean shouted urgently, "Or you're going to fall."

Sam jolted, snapping out of his stupor he complied. Raising a shaky floundering hand, he came in contact with a fist full of Dean's jacket sleeve.

Dean hesitated, wanting to make sure Sam had a firm grip. His brother was taller and weighted a good bit more than him. "Geeze, you're heavier than a garbage can full of bricks." He got off his knees and into a crouch.

"Dean." Sam shivered, instinctively looking down, thankful he couldn't see.

"It's okay. It's okay, Sam, I won't let you down. Ha," Dean laughed darkly, anchoring himself against the rail and hoping it would hold as he concentrated on keeping his feet dead weight and cemented to the catwalk.

Sam said nothing, fear crossing his face.

"I swear, Sam, you hear me? I won't let you go." Dean slowly rose, dragging Sam up with him.

"I hear you." Sam's voice shook.

"Friggin' don't get paid enough for this," Dean murmured.

"Don't get paid at all, Dean," Sam countered.

Dean leaned far over the rail, his back muscles taunt, one handedly inching his way down Sam's back. It was awkward positioning, the catwalk mossy and slick. Dean grunted, "So," he strained, cinching a hand under Sam's belt, "You enjoying the view, ah…" Dean's right boot slipped, Sam's weight nearly dragging him over, but he held his position, wouldn't let go. If Sam went - so did he.

"Aw- gaw," Sam's back arched away. "Dean, don't be a hero," he pleaded.

"Sam, knock that crap off, this isn't the movies." Dean let out a breath when Sam relaxed. "And actually, it's Billy Don't be a Hero."

Sam groaned.

Dean finally dragged Sam belly- first then long legs over the rail, their combined weight taking them both down hard to the catwalk. He pulled Sam across the catwalk with him arranging them both side-by side against the masonry to catch their breath. "That was scary." Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Hope you packed a fresh pair of Batman Underoos, bro," he spurted out laughing - humor - his way of smoothing over a bad situation.

Dean turned to Sam. Yeah. That wasn't working. Sam sat stiffly next to him, all moppy haired and tight lipped, breathing in and out extra hard.

"Hey." Dean frowned.

"My eyes." Sam squirmed. "The lighthouse lamplight," he said, unable to stop blinking. "I was looking right at it when the ghost must have turned it on." Sam shivered. "Dean."

Silence fell between them. Dean leaned in close, Sam could feel his breath on his face.

"It's okay, Sam. Can you see anything?" He asked studying his brother's eyes.

Sam remained quiet, blinking rapidly.

"Sam." Dean gentled his voice, knowing Sam was scared. "Come on, tell me what you see?"

"At first, nothing but now…"

"Now?" Dean asked anxiously.

"Like a halo of light."

"Can you see me?" Dean waved a hand in front of his brother's face.

"You're a smudge."

"Gee, thanks, I've never been someone's smudge before," Dean said, bumping Sam's leg with his.

Sam raised a hand. "My eyes hurt."

"Yeah." Dean pulled Sam's hand away before he could touch. "Don't mess with them, man," he warned.

"Dean, I…" Sam bit his lip.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay. Listen close. I'm no doctor, but I'm sure it's just temporary shock - flash blindness." Dean cupped a hand over Sam's left eye.

"Gah." Sam startled drawing back.

"Relax, just me. Want to test something." Dean moved an index finger back and forth in front of Sam's uncovered eye. He frowned deeply when his brother stared blankly, completely unresponsive. "Gonna do the same to the other eye, now, buddy." Not wanting to startle Sam again, he waited a beat, then cupped Sam's right eye, index finger moving back and forth.

Sam's eye twitched slightly. "Think I see a shadow."

"It's my finger."

"Flash blindness?" Sam asked, worriedly.

"Pretty sure."

"You making that up?"

"No, seriously, it happened to dad once on a hunt. Dad was chasing a shape shifter through a used car lot. Thing was quick, turned one of those giant advertising spotlights on. The sudden burst of light took dad off guard and…"

"Dad was taken off guard, I don't believe it. How the…"

"Can I finish?"

"Yes."

"And Dad looked right into the beam," Dean continued not losing a beat, "The light was so friggin' bright it temporarily blinded him for several hours, and the bastard got away.

"Fantastic," Sam winced, holding his arm to his chest. "Like father, like son."

"Looks that way. Hey." Dean gently took Sam by the arm. "What'd you do here?" he asked toying with the shredded material of Sam's jacket.

"It's nothing."

"Yeah, well all that nothing is leaking red stuff out your arm, bro, and last time I checked ketchup didn't flow through your veins." Dean's hand trembled as he inspected the wound. "Got some nice chunks of glass stuck in you," he grimly informed, probing to see how deep the wound was through the seepage of blood.

A flash of pain crossed Sam's face.

"Sorry," Dean drew back.

"Doesn't hurt," Sam said, trying to gather his legs under him.

"Uh-huh," Dean whispered. Dragging his duffel over, he deftly unzipped the pack tugging out a cheap motel hand towel. "Hang on." He twined the terry cloth to look like a rope, tugging it tightly around Sam's forearm.

"Ah, ffffffuuuu," Sam choked.

"That'll hold for now."

"Can we, can we," Sam wet his lips, "Go?" Sam asked.

Without a word Dean draped Sam's uninjured arm over his shoulder and hefted them both to standing. Sam stood on quivering legs, his breathing harsh, throat convulsing to swallow. He was disoriented and felt dizzy.

Sam clenched his teeth as the air-brushed darkness pitched him sideways. "De-Dean." He reached frantically.

"I gottcha." Dean edged closer, taking hold of Sam by the elbow.

"Yeah, okay," Sam tensed. "Thanks."

Sam's sight was cloudy and he couldn't differentiate between the shapeless shadows darting about in front of him.

"Gonna cost you big-time," Dean said, tripping their way back through the lamp room and down the staircase.

"How much?" Sam asked as they started down the stairs.

"I'll think of something, Sam, shut up."

"I'm good for it," Sam said, taking each step hesitantly.

"Better be, wench, now for the last time, shut up and save your energy."

Too tired and shaken to respond in the usual fashion, Sam focused on not bumping into the wall or dragging Dean down. He kept turning his head from side to side, trying to compensate for his lack of depth perception and dizzying disorientation. They could have been walking on the ceiling for all Sam knew - a ceiling of fire.

Misjudging the proximity of a step, Sam's feet twisted. "Humph." He tripped over himself.

Dean quickly righted his wrong, pulling upward and holding firmer to Sam's arm.

"Bet you don't know what number step we're on," Dean babbled on, deciding he needed to distract the kid before he took a header.

"Dean knock it off."

"Come on, Sam, bet me."

"No."

"I dare you."

"I'm not taking your money, Dean," Sam huffed in annoyance, but truth be told he was grateful. The idol talk filtering in through the dark grounded him, lighting his way.

"What makes you think you'll take my money, douche bag?" Dean steered Sam a little to the left.

"Stupid. I always take your money."

"Sam. Come on. Bet me. I say twenty."

"Fifty."

Dean gave a low whistle." Oh, Sammy, I get all tingly when you up the ante like that," Dean chuckled.

"Jerk."

"Want to make it an even hundred?"

"Deal."

"Well, what number step?"

"Forty nine."

"Wrong."

"I'm not wrong, Dean."

"Yes, you are."

"You can't count," Sam hissed.

"Don't tell me what I can't do," Dean scolded.

"How you going to prove it. Hike us both all the way back up the steps and count them as we go?"

"Don't have to, bro," Dean chuckled. "We're down"

Sam strained his eyes to see. "Oh, um, oh."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They made it as far as the chain link fence.

"Yikes," Dean mumbled, fingers gripping the fence and peering through the rusty links.

Even through the black-ink of night, Dean could see the large lake surf slamming into, and rocketing up and over the break wall. No way they were hobbling across, back to the mainland, where the Impala was parked in any empty lot.

"What?" Sam questioned nervously.

"End of the road," Dean grouched.

Sam pulled away from Dean, and turned, leaning into the high steel enclosure for support instead. "You mean we're stuck here all night?" He gripped his injured arm and held it close to his chest.

"San, I'm awesome, but even yours truly wouldn't be able to make it back across those rocks without hanging ten, and your in no shape to Moondoggie paddle across."

Sam snorted. "You mean to tell me 'yours truly can't fly us across?"

"You're in no shape to fly, Sam, back inside."

"Great." Sam pushed off the fence and stumbled left - the opposite way from the lighthouse.

Dean gave a shrill whistle, "Sam." He snatched his brother by an elbow. "This way."

"This sucks." Sam walked slightly hunched over, gripping his injured arm, allowing Dean to take the lead.

"You, me, or both of us taking a header into the cold lake water would suck more," Dean said. "Besides, I have to stitch up your wound and you need sleep."

"I can't…"

"Sleep. I know, and tough titties," Dean said sternly.

Sam's facial expression was unreadable. Dean wasn't sure if the kid was astonished, surprised, scared, or just totally repulsed by the word. What he was sure of was the guilt and grief, slithering around inside his brother was a living flesh and blood creature. Hideous, horrible, burning its way through his gut like a Godzilla-sized jalapeno. He wished he could put Sam under, and surgically remove the monster that was eating Sam alive, from the inside out.

"Look, Sam," Dean continued, "You can't go on like you've been. You're going to get some rest if I have to…"

"Sing Brahms," Sam suggested, recovering from whatever it was he was recovering from.

"Let's not get crazy, man. I'll sing you some Ozzy, Zeppelin, Hey Jude."

"McCartney, you're not."

"True, but you gotta admit, Ozzy and I jam."

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sat resting against a cold cement wall, his forehead pressed against bended knee, Dean shuffling quietly by his side.

"Sam?"

"I'm good."

"Not as good as Daisy Duke in short shorts, bending over the hood of the Impala -washing and waxing."

"Reality, Dean."

"Always was overrated," Dean huffed, peeling away the blood soaked towel to reveal his brother's sliced up flesh. Reaching behind him, he dug around in the duffel and pulled out a bottle of Jack.

"You know the drill," Dean warned. "Take a breath."

Sam did as he was told, taking in a small breath of air and holding it.

"All right, here we go." Dean poured the whiskey, rinsing away blood and tiny slivers of glass.

"Damn." Sam jerked a little against the sting of alcohol.

"Steady," Dean murmured.

Sam slowly lifted his head, following the gray-tinged blur - that was Dean - ghosting about him, gathering supplies.

"Think," Sam gritted, "There's something stuck in my arm."

Dean nodded, not that Sam could see as he flushed the wound again. "Glass shards," he said, taking Sam by the hand. "Open up." Dean tugged at Sam's chin.

"What is it?"

"Numbing stuff."

Dean slipped two pills into Sam's mouth, then pushed the whiskey bottle at him. "Take a big swig," he ordered.

"Crap." Sam cursed, wrapping a hand around the bottle.

He lifted the bottle shakily to his lips and downed several extra large swallows, preparing for more pain.

Dean took the bottle back and poured some whiskey over a small Swiss Army pocketknife, then heating the tip with the flame from his Zippo.

Sam knuckle-wiped away the drops of booze that slipped out the side of his mouth, dribbling its way down his chin.

"This is going to hurt," Dean said, "Take in another breath and hold it, Sammy."

Sam nodded, sucking in a very deep breath this time.

"Good boy, hold it a second. Gotta search…" Dean cut off, gritting his teeth against his own nausea as he sliced through meaty-red flesh, blood oozing out and washing down Sam's arm in streams.

Sam blew out the breath he'd been holding "What the hell you…guh," Sam grunted through clenched teeth. "You searching for?" He panted, "B-buried t-treasure?" Sam stiffened, fighting the pain. "Damn it, De…" He sucked in another breath.

"Sorry," Dean whispered not even tempted to take Sam's bait and fall back into his pirate character at the moment. "Bro, there's more than one piece of glass stuck in there. Looks like a lot of torn tissue and I'm about to tear it up some more."

"You, you gotta dig more?" Sam's voice quivered, digging around meant not only removing the foreign matter, but chunks of flesh too.

"No, Sam," Dean huffed. "I'm going to send in a tiny search party of leprechauns to go in and pluck out each sliver, one-by-one, with their Dove soft hands."

"Hysterical, Dean." Sam fidgeted in sheer anticipation of the pain.

"Don't move." Dean patted Sam's chest, hating what he was about to do. "Here we go. I'll take it as easy as I can on you."

Sam tried not to squirm, but all the digging around Dean was doing hurt - a lot. "Can you hurry up and stop pawing at…shit." Sam reached out, tangling trembling fingers into Dean's jacket. "Dee." Sam crumpled against his brother, unable to hold himself up resting his chin on Dean's shoulder.

"Easy, Sam." Dean cupped a hand to the back of Sam's neck and held him a moment in support. "Bro, I said, don't move," he uttered softly.

"Not," Sam grunted, "How can you see what you're doing anyway? Isn't it still dark outside?" Sam looked around, but everything was still dotted black.

"Brought the Coleman lantern." Dean let Sam rest a few more minutes, before inching Sam back against the wall and going back to the wound. "Just try to hang on," Dean whistled low.

Another stab of pain hit Sam hard. "Oooo, crap, watch it," he growled, forcing himself not to move.

"Got a big chunk out."

"Hurray for you," Sam deadpanned, desperate to catch his breath.

"Someone's grumpy." Dean squeezed the surrounding skin, sending something hot and sharp poking through the wound.

"Gah damnit, Dean."

"Easy, pal, another huge piece."

Sam dropped his head back against the wall and swallowed hard. He needed to distract himself. Dean was really trying to be gentle as he'd always been with Sam whenever he was hurt. The ministries reminded him of Jess. She too, always gentle with him. He didn't deserve that.

He thought of the stupid Halloween bar party she'd made him go to. He'd gone as himself - lame. Jess was dressed up like pretty, little nurse fix-me-up. And some nurse she had been. She could always make him feel good inevery way possible. They'd slow danced and kissed a lot that night. It was that night swaying close together in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by fake ghosts and ghouls, that Sam made the decision. Jess was his life and he'd spend the rest of it with her.

The pain in his shoulder returned, but it was nothing compared to the pain and torture of knowing that dream of normal would never come true - ever.

"I see another, this one's deep," Dean said, remaining calm on the outside.

Sam didn't move, just nodded, whimpering on the inside as warm blood washed down his arm. He closed his eyes, biting into his lip when he immediately saw Jess, burning on the ceiling. Blood dripping from her stomach, mouth open, but the scream would not come.

"Sammy," Dean stopped working on his shoulder. "What's going on?"

Sam didn't react.

"Sam!" Dean said louder tapping his cheek, compelling him to open his eyes.

Sam stared watery-eyed and silent at the fuzzy, painted smudge that was Dean.

Dean bowed his head, looming. "Sammy, I promise," Dean pledged, the rest of the words not needing to be spoken allowed.

Sam smiled, nodding acceptance.

As if the moment didn't exist, Dean went back to Sam's injury. "Ewe gross, took a chunk of skin with that one."

"Thank you so much for that, Dean." Sam grunted, perspiration dripping off the tips of his bangs.

"Almost done." Dean paused, pulling Sam's hair out of his eyes.

The echo of silence was loud between them.

"It's coming back slowly," Sam answered the unspoken question, softly. "I can make out the outline of your dumbass," he chuffed. "Pretty sure it's temporary, shock, like you said."

"Here." Dean wrapped Sam's good hand around the whiskey bottle. "Finish this off."

Sam obliged, sloshing back swallow after swallow.

Dean went back to probing. "Yeah, well if your dumbass would stop being such a babe….ah there it is."

Sam gritted his teeth while Dean pulled out shard after shard. "Okay, think I got them all," he finally said.

"Glad that's over," Sam gritted

"Needle and thread time," Dean said, "You gonna make it through?"

Sam listed to his right. "Think I might go to sleep now."

"That's good, Sam." Dean helped ease him down, pillowing Sam's head on his jacket. "That's real good."

**/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Sam lay spread eagle, pinned against the flat surface of the break wall and staring upward. Enraged orange flames roared above him, spreading to the ends of the earth.

"Gah." He was cold and sick, the deplorable pain deep inside his gut making it's way into his throat.

He tried to sit up, but firm pressure to his chest pushed him back flat.

"Jess," a tiny moan escaped his lips.

"Why, Sam?" Jessica appeared, sprawled across the sky, her cloud-white nightgown red with blood. She stared at Sam, struggling to breathe, gurgling, asking Sam why, then disappearing in an explosion of heat.

"Tell her why, Sam." Dean's voice whispered in his ear.

The orange-flamed sky turned blood-frothed, spewing evil, drop-by-drop to his forehead.

"Dean?" Sam turned his head away, seeing nothing but blackness. "Dean, where are you?" Sam struggled to move, fighting hysteria, but an immeasurable pressure in his chest held him down, like a coffin of death had fallen on him. "Dean," he begged and strained to sit up, to see but his brother was nowhere to be found.

He couldn't blame Dean for bolting. Sam was a giant sponge, always sucking Dean dry. His big brother had stood watch over him his entire life. In motel rooms, backward cabins, diners, on hunts, in the car, on the barstool next to dad.

"Jess died, because you're a freak. Because you lied. Because you made it happen through your freaky psychic crap." Dean's disembodied voice was back. "She is dead. You killed her. You have to live with that the rest of your life. I told you, Sam. Dad warned you. I warned you. Winchesters don't live by normal rulebooks. I told you."

"No, no, no," Sam whimpered, staring back up.

"Sam."

The flames above burned his eyes, but his body felt deathly cold. "Oh, God, Jess."

"Hey!" A hand came to his shoulder and squeezed. "It's okay. It's okay. Sammy. "

"Should have told the truth," Sam choked hard, "Protected you."

"Sam!" His entire body shook.

Sam's eyes shot open, and he pulled himself up to sitting. "What?"

"Sam," Dean said softly, "You were dreaming," Dean sighed, "Again."

Unable to connect dream with reality, Sam shoved back against the wall, wild-eyed and stuttering breathed.

"Hey, hey, it's me." Dean gently took Sam by the shoulders and held him in place, waiting for Sam to realize. "Just a dream, kid."

Sam wanted to throw up, but didn't. Just a dream? For normal people that statement would be true. Normal people were lucky. Sure they often times woke up screaming from their dreams, yet they knew fairly quickly they were unreal. Sam never knew if he was dreaming or if he was awake. His dreams freaked him out, then they'd turn into the real deal, turned into a weapon of death and destruction. Sam rubbed his aching head and squirmed uncomfortably, but Dean didn't let go.

"You were practically unconscious, pal, you back with?"

"Yeah," Sam groaned, his vision swimming all gray and misty. "Gah." Damn his arm burned. He squinted, trying to see the damage. "You done?" he asked when he couldn't.

"You've been out about a half hour," Dean announced wearily, "Took ten more stitches than I thought." Dean bent over, lifting the compress. The wound was open, seeping a slow, steady stream of blood, hot and swollen to the touch. "Hurt much?"

"I…um," Sam cleared his throat, "Little bit."

"Can always count on you to get strung out on a couple extra shots of whiskey and a double dose of pain pills," Dean sighed.

"Dean, you know the good stuff always does that to me."

"Man, you're fragile. Wasn't even the good stuff." Dean stared long and hard at Sam.

Kid hadn't had more than a few hours sleep in weeks because of the nightmares. Dean wished he could strip away all the layers of Sam's bullshit, then his baby brother would have nowhere to hide. Sam would have no choice but to talk to him about his dreams. Maybe if he did, they'd go away, like when they were kids. Once Sam told Dean about a nightmare, he forgot all about it.

Dean had asked Sam umpteen times what he was dreaming about, and umpteen times Sam had quickly come up with some smart- ass, piss-poor response. Lollipops and candy canes, raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, teddy bears and ice cream cakes, sunshine and Applejacks. Anything Sam could think of to powder over what he really was dreaming about; in which Dean's only reply was – "uh-huh."

"So," Dean licked his lips, never one to give up. "Want to tell me?

"Dean, you do realize that's like the umpteenth time you've asked."

"Umpteen and one."

Sam nodded. "Guess that's some sort of record."

"Uh-huh," Dean replied causally.

Sam nodded again, "Guess you deserve some sort of answer."

Sam waited for the usual 'Uh-huh', but when Dean remained silent, he let out a sigh and said, "One minute I was happy," Sam swallowed audibly, "Happy to be back…eh…home. She'd baked me cookies. Left a note saying she missed me, that she," Sam stared down at his hands, "I thought she was in the shower. I thought…" his voice broke. "I thought everything could go back to normal. Figured normal would start the moment she crawled into bed with me and …" Sam shook his head. "I was almost asleep. Took a minute to realize something was dripping from the ceiling. For a second I thought the tenant upstairs had plugged up his toilet again. When I opened my eyes…" Sam struggled not to puke, titling his head back against the wall, blinking and peering upward.

"It's all I see when I close my eyes. Should have known the hand of fate wouldn't allow a Winchester to have something good and decent in his life. Dean, don't," Sam blinked back a tear, "Don't let me…" Sam bit his lip.

Dean glanced away, not wanting to watch the shudders racing through Sam's body. Blood, fire, senseless heartache. Fuck the hand of fate - always shoving them over the edge.

"Ah, Sammy...you have to let this go. You have to sleep."

"Don't." Sam rubbed at his eyes as if particles of dust were making them itch. "Dean, please."

Dean nodded. There was nothing he could do or say. He wished he could piece the remains of Sam's heart back together, but his guilt was a gruesome monster, Sam had leashed and was not going to let loose. He'd have to get creative if he was going to get his baby brother some sleep and a little relief.

Sam shuddered. His heart had stopped when he'd met Jess. Why did it beat on when hers did not? He wasn't going to sleep a wink. If he didn't sleep, he wouldn't have to relive her death. So vivid. So real.

They sat quietly next to each other against the wall. The light of the moon filtered in, mixing with the light of the Coleman sending shadows leaping from spot to spot.

Dean tilted sideways, and pulled his pack closer, digging around until he pulled a velvety purple drawstring pouch.

"Crown Royal, really?" Sam murmured.

"You pack your juice, I pack mine." Dean drew the fat bottle from the pouch and quickly raised his eyes to meet Sam's small bloodshot ones, circles of deep purple pitted beneath. "Sam?"

"What are you doing with a forty dollar bottle of hooch, Dean?"

"Dude, you can se..."

"That's the holy grail of all whiskey." Sam smiled weakly.

"Bro," Dean scolded.

"I can see, still a bit blurry, but I can see." Watery hazel eyes peered at Dean

"Yeah, kinda noticed that," Dean snipped, then whispered, "Thank, God." He twisted off the gold cap, breaking the seal and taking a swig. "Here." He passed the bottle to Sam."

"No, thanks," Sam refused, "Had enough of the cheap stuff before."

"Didn't get you drunk, and you only took a thirty minute catnap."

"I don't want to get drunk, Dean." Sam glanced away. "Or sleep," he said lightly.

Sleep, it wasn't something Dean could force upon his brother, much as he wanted to. Come to think of it, getting Sam drunk wasn't something he could force either. Course, he could slip Sam a mickey, but in remembering the last time he'd gone that route, he'd revved the dude up, not down. Kid was always backward.

There was a simpler time when a warm bottle of milk and a song had easily put Sam down for the night, but Sam obviously wasn't a baby anymore. "Sleep or drink," Dean ordered taking his chances and shoving the bottle more forcefully at his brother. If Sam wasn't going to do one, by all that was fucked-up, he was going to do the other.

"Dean," Sam objected

"Isn't mother's milk but it'll do."

Sam sighed, to exhausted and in pain to argue, "Fine." He swiped the bottle, quickly raising the lip to his, and guzzling the whiskey until he choked. "Happ," he choked harder. "Grrrrrrrr."

"Easy, Sam, drink, not drown."

Took a moment, but when Sam's choking subsided he settled back against the wall, becoming more and more relaxed with each sip.

'That's it." Dean began to chatter, monotonous and repetitive.

In-between Sam's sips and yawns, Dean talked. And talked. And talked some more. Talked about different gages of shower pressure and the all important strength of a hot cup of coffee. Breakfast. The car. The proper way to order pizza, mud wrestling strippers and the female species of leprechaun. When he'd finished rating every flavor of pie here and abroad, Dean started all over again; talking about shower pressure, hot cups of coffee, breakfast, the car, the proper way to order pizza, mud wrestling…

**Blah. Blah. Blah**.

Dean's idol chatter turned into dull, white noise, causing Sam's head to nod, his eyes to droop, his body to go lax. Or, maybe it wasn't the random babbling, but the golden hooch, all lukewarm and numbing its way through his veins? All of a sudden his mind went blank, and a weird floaty feeling he hadn't felt in ages came over him.

"Can't hardly keep my eyes open," he garbled.

Dean covertly glanced at Sam and waited until the kids' eyes stopped fluttering and his head-bobbing became less and less. Dean angled toward Sam just as the bottle of Crown Royal in his brother's right hand started to gradually slip from his grasp. Dean gently took the bottle from Sam's loosening fingers.

Sam whimpered, then settled, his bobbing head doing a final flop - chin to chest.

Gritting his teeth to hush himself, Dean queitly screwed the cap back on and returned the half-empty Holy Grail to its velvety-purple thrown. He took in a deep breath and held the air inside puffed out cheeks, ever so slowly reaching over to take Sam by the shoulders, taking Sam gently down to his lap.

"Uhhh," Sam mumbled, and squirmed, a few strands of hair falling over his eyes.

Dean softly brushed them away, only stopping when Sam mumbled again, snuggling deeper into Dean's lap he finally fizzled out.

"Shhh," Dean quietly let out the breath he'd been holding, and finished smoothing Sam's hair back. "I'm right here, Sammy, sleep," he barely whispered, settling himself more comfortably against the wall, keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder.

If the kid so much as got a goose bump, Dean would be there. Patting his back in time to the beat of his heart. He'd chase away the nightmares - keeping watch - a port in his brother's storm.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Epilogue:**

Morning came all too soon.

Dean stood facing the lake, zipper down and watching the sunrise into the raspberry colored sky.

"Hey." Sam came up from behind, lugging both duffle bags. "What you doing?" He dropped Dean's bag near his feet, wincing; even though he'd carried both bags out using his uninjured shoulder the strain hurt.

"What's it look like," Dean said dully, "I'm pissing a river into the lake. Ha!"

Sam nodded. Enough said.

"Nice drool rash on your cheek," Dean chuckled, continuing on with his extra long whiz. "Better?" he asked more seriously.

"Almost," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, he's eyes were still a bit blurry and stung, not to mention his arm and leg. "In spite of my inability to remember much of anything, could be worse."

"You need me to take your pulse again, dude?"

"I'm good, Dean."

Dean stood in front of Sam. "Yeah, you look grrrrrrreat," Dean grouched, unsmiling.

"You're the one who wanted me to drink," Sam said snootily.

"Numbed your arm, didn't it?"

"And everything else."

"My point. No nightmares," Dean raised a questioning brow, "Right?"

"Dude, I dreamt about mud wrestling, coffee drinking midgets showering all night long, that much I remember."

"Least they weren't mud wrestling, coffee drinking clowns."

"Uh." Sam shivered.

"You got some sleep, didn't you?"

Sam shrugged. "Some."

"Think you can navigate those rocks?"

Sam made an unsure face.

"Man. You do know I'm a deadly, dangerous, panther… Lord of surefootedness. I could carry your ass over the fence and back across Stonehenge."

"I'm fine."

"Bet you twenty-five, you don't make it halfway without puking," Dean chirped.

"Double that, plus the fifty I still owe you for the step bet... you don't make it without falling into a hole." Sam dazedly crouched down, about to cup some lake water in his palm and splash himself awake.

"Rrrgrrr rrm," Dean cleared his throat.

Sam froze, hearing the trickling fountain of Dean's piss still hitting the water.

"Oh, gaw." Sam forwent the golden shower face wash, and stood.

"Ready?" Dean zipped, a smug look on his face.

They made their way up and over the fence and carefully back across the gray-slab bridge, staying silent, the whooshing roar of the emerald lake waves the only sound.

Half-way across, Dean gazed over at Sam. "How you doing, klutz, you're not… ahhhh…" Dean stumbled.

Sam whirled fumbling to grab hold of Dean, but his injured arm and leg slowed him and Dean ended up with his left leg hip-deep in a hole.

"Are you okay, oh deadly and dangerous panther?" Sam couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't forget Lord of surefootedness," Dean growled.

Sam giggled reaching his uninjured hand down offering his help.

Dean stared up at Sam, unmoving and totally pissed.

Sam waggled his fingers in offering.

Dean still refused, his face darkening.

"Dean."

"Got it." Dean slapped Sam's hand away, bracing his hands on the stony edge and pushing himself to standing.

Sam bent down to look at the tattered and torn jeans. "You sure…"

"Shut up." Dean grouched with embarrassment.

Sam shuffled along beside him, his damaged arm close to his side, and limping on one leg.

Dean put a hand to Sam's shoulder the rest of the way across the break wall, surprisingly pleased Sam allowed the action, and even seemed comforted by the brotherly gesture until they reached the end of the jagged walkway.

"Pay up." Sam whirled, holding out a hand.

Dean grudgingly pulled a fifty from his inside jacket pocket. "Happy."

"One hundred, Dean." Sam blew a sweaty lock off the middle of his forehead.

"Getting greedy, brother."

"You're not going to hornswaggle me out of my money, Dean."

"Horn what?"

"Pirate talk for cheat, defraud."

"Fine." Dean reached in his back jeans pocket for…he looked at Sam in shock. "The hell? My wallet's gone."

**The end.**


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